


We're Okay Again

by Aaron_The_8th_Demon



Series: Holding [17]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2015-2016 NHL Season, 2016-2017 NHL Season, 2017-2018 NHL Season, Anxiety, Author hates Tampa Bay and Montreal, Brad gets stuck in a bad situation and Patrice has to help him get out of it again, Concussions, Dealing With Trauma, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Rape/Non-con, Sexual Content, Team as Family, Workplace Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 09:42:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18797812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aaron_The_8th_Demon/pseuds/Aaron_The_8th_Demon
Summary: “Hey, so. We gotta talk, man.”“Okay. What’s up?”*Don’t chicken out don’t chicken out don’t chicken out, he needs your help.* “About Carter.”“Why?”“Because I know what he’s doing to you, Brad.” Patrice breathes in. “I know you don’t really realize what he’s doing, but I have. Every other week you come to practice or to a game looking like you’ve been crying, and you hardly ever go out with the guys these days. You always look worried when you leave to go home. And… please don’t say anything about how he’s not hitting you, I can see that he isn’t, but he’s still hurting you and that’s not okay. Please let me help. You’re my best friend and I don’t want this for you.”





	We're Okay Again

**Author's Note:**

> Uhhhhh… so... this was kind of inevitable, I think. Pretty much regardless of fandom I will always end up doing unspeakable harm to my favorite characters. See further trigger warnings in the end notes if you don't mind spoilers and/or want to be absolutely sure you'll be okay reading this. (I feel horrible for writing it, but I know some people like fics like this, and there is a happy ending so... that's good, right?)
> 
> Also, on a minor note: when Bergy is talking to his mom on the phone and she just calls him "dear," it's because I tried to find out what Quebecois terms of endearment are for your children and couldn't get any solid answers, so it's there as a placeholder for whatever people actually call their sons in French Canada.

Something’s not right.

More specifically, something hasn’t been right for a long time.

Patrice remembers several months ago, when Brad came to him and asked if he could talk about something. He absolutely had to talk about it, but nobody else could know. Well, really it turned out to be two things: for one, Brad is gay, and for two, would Patrice like to meet his new boyfriend. Brad wasn’t ready to talk to the team about it yet, but Patrice is his best friend. So back then, Patrice had smiled and nodded because of course he’d like to meet Brad’s new boyfriend. He’d planned on it for three weeks… and then it suddenly got cancelled. Apparently Carter was sick or something. Patrice thought nothing of it at the time.

Things got interesting a few weeks after that. Because Brad showed up for practice one morning, absolutely exhausted and with red eyes. The team chirped him, saying things like he must’ve been up all night boning someone, and he’d smiled and laughed and played along. But that’s what it was: he was _playing along._ And Patrice had a sneaking suspicion that his eyes were red because a few minutes before coming to practice, he’d been crying about something.

This sort of became a pattern. Every four or five weeks, Brad would arrive to them like this. Then it was every three weeks. Now, it’s every other week at least. Going on road trips seems to help; he’ll recover, and then it’ll happen again. The tired look, jokes falling flat… Brad unable to act like himself. Or at least Patrice isn’t convinced.

* * *

Today, Brad comes into the locker room limping.

It’s not a normal limp, either, like keeping weight off a hurt joint. More of a stiffness, like it doesn’t hurt _now_ but it will if he moves outside a certain pattern. Patrice watches him covertly - how Brad’s very careful sitting, how he’s not looking at anyone for more than two seconds even when they talk to him, how ginger he is pulling on his pads, how he’s a little paler than usual. Something’s not right.

After morning skate, Patrice hangs back and waits for everyone else to leave. He gets a look from Z, but he doesn’t say anything because he feels like this isn’t something he should share with anyone. Distressingly, when the locker room is empty, Patrice can hear sniffing over the sound of the water. “Something’s not right” now graduates to “something’s really wrong.”

He walks silently over to the shower stalls and lightly taps on the only closed door. “Brad? Are you okay?”

“Shit, Bergy?!” his friend shouts, sounding horrified at getting caught. “Uh, yeah! It’s fine! I just - I should’a been more careful, I hurt myself, but it’s okay!”

The sheer volume of panic in Brad’s voice rings every alarm bell in his head.

“Well… you know, if you need anything, you can always talk to me about it, okay?”

“Yeah! Yeah. Good. Uh. It’s nothing, though, really.”

“It just sounds like you maybe need help with something, that’s all…”

“No, um, no, it’s fine,” Brad insists.

Patrice didn’t believe him to begin with, and he’s getting more and more suspicious by the second.

“You’re limping, Marchy, and you could barely skate in a straight line. Will you just tell me what happened?”

“Nothing! I just - I slipped and fell down this morning, I’ll be okay by tomorrow night for the game!”

Brad’s clearly freaking out inside the shower stall, and Patrice doesn’t know why, but that scares him.

“Marchy, what’s going on?” he asks, trying not to sound demanding. He’s really worried about this.

“Nothing,” Brad insists again.

“It really doesn’t sound like nothing.”

“Will you fucking let it go already, Bergeron?!” Brad screams from the other side of the stall door. “I said it’s fine!”

That… really hurts. Patrice knows something’s not okay, and he just wants to help. Apparently Brad doesn’t want his help, though.

“Okay, then,” he concedes finally, no matter how much his gut is screaming that he should keep pressing the issue. “Well… if you change your mind, I’m around.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Thanks. It’s fine.”

* * *

It’s clearly not fine. This incident sticks with Patrice, and the guilt so eats at him that he can’t help what he does a week later: he calls his mother for advice.

“ _Maman,_ he was really panicking,” Patrice concludes his report with. “I didn’t know what to do, so… I left him there like he wanted. I feel so bad about it, I know that was the wrong thing, but… what do I do? I know Brad’s in trouble but he won’t talk about it.”

His mother is quiet for a moment. “Is Brad seeing someone?”

“Yeah, he… wait, why?”

“Please answer, dear.”

“Yes. He. Please don’t say anything about this to anyone, I promised I would never tell, but he has-he has a boyfriend named Carter,” Patrice stammers. He’s so ashamed of himself.

“It sounds like this boyfriend is hurting him.”

Patrice’s stomach drops through his feet. “Oh, god,” he chokes out. “You really think…? But… but Brad’s really stubborn, and he’s really strong, he wouldn’t put up with that…”

“That doesn’t always matter. Do you have a road trip coming up? See if you can get him alone again and talk to him about it. He definitely needs someone to help him get out of that situation.”

“What if he won’t talk about it?”

“Patrice. Listen to me. He could be in danger, you need to help him. He’s going to be scared and he won’t want to talk at first. But you have to do something.”

Patrice feels worse, because he wishes he’d figured this out on his own (and sooner), but he also feels better because now he at least knows his instincts were right.

* * *

Two days later, they do go on a five-game road trip. It’s perfect: Patrice will have more than enough time to work this out, now. It takes some creative lying about “figuring out a personal issue” with Brad, but Patrice manages to convince the staff to room the two of them together for all but the first night.

They lose to the Isles, and then head for New Jersey. Patrice is now Brad’s roommate for the next nine days. He waits until Brad’s busy unpacking and tries to bring it up gently, as well as probe to see if his mother was right.

“So… awhile ago, you were going to take me to meet Carter,” Patrice tries. “I wish I got the chance, since he’s special to you.”

Brad visibly stiffens, and his smile is forced. “Yeah, I’ll ask him about it. He’s busy a lot, though, so it could be a long time until we get the chance…”

“You’ve been with him for awhile, now. Do you love him?”

“Yeah,” Brad nods, and Patrice feels sick because it’s clear he actually does. “When I met him he didn’t mind that I’m not out or anything. He’s okay with that kind of shit. Most people aren’t.”

“I see.” Patrice swallows. “I bet he loves you back, too, if he’s okay with it.”

“Yeah, he does,” Brad answers, but he sounds really unsure of that fact. “Yeah. He says he loves me all the time. And like, that’s a good thing, if something happened I’ll have to find an apartment and everything, which would be like, a huge pain in the ass. I hate moving.”

Okay.

So.

This is actually a lot of information. Patrice had gone on the internet and read up on this shit the other night (which is part of why they lost; it was so horrific that he’d been awake until two in the morning because the pit in his stomach kept getting bigger and more unmanageable the more he learned).

Patrice breaks everything down. _He’s busy a lot_ translates to _He doesn’t want to be around my friends and family, and probably doesn’t want me to be around them either._ _He doesn’t mind that I’m not out_ could mean _He’s threatening to expose me and end my career if I try to leave him_ and, similarly, _He’s okay with that - most people aren’t_ probably gets said to Brad a lot, reinforcing a misnomer that nobody else could find Brad loveable. _He says he loves me all the time_ is a common tactic to brainwash victims into thinking they’re ungrateful or terrible people should they try to leave. _If something happened I’ll have to find an apartment_ definitely shows that Brad is somewhat dependant on his abusive boyfriend, because otherwise he’s out on his ass (at least temporarily). _I hate moving_ is Brad making excuses for Carter’s behavior, likely without even knowing it.

“Well, I mean, if something does happen you could always crash with me,” Patrice offers. “You wouldn’t have to just live out of your car or whatever.”

“Thanks, man, but I’m not going anywhere,” Brad replies.

“Okay, well…” Patrice considers his next words carefully. There’s very little he can say that won’t make the situation implode. “Sometimes, you know, you seem kinda sad, so. If you have arguments with him you can just sleep at my place. Everyone fights sometimes, so it wouldn’t even be that weird.”

Brad clams up. “Nah. Thanks, but. Don’t really need to.”

This is hurting Patrice right in his soul. Even understanding what’s going on, he still doesn’t know what to do. Luckily, Brad doesn’t speak French, so in a few minutes Patrice calls his mother again. He still waits until his friend is taking a shower, though, just in case.

First, he explains everything he found out. “So now what should I do? He makes excuses for this guy and everything.”

“You might have to be caring without being gentle,” she sighs. “Try explaining to him what’s going on. He’s not going to listen at first, but do it anyway. And make sure he knows it’s because you love him and because you’re trying to help. And tell him, as much as you can, that it’s not his fault. He deserves so much better than he’s getting.”

“I’ll try… _maman,_ he won’t let me talk about it…”

“You can’t wait for him to ‘let’ you talk about it,” she scolds, still with concern. “He needs you to help. He’s going to be scared and he’s not going to like it, but you have to.”

Patrice sighs. “I know. I’ll do my best.”

Brad comes out of the bathroom just as he hangs up, and at least there aren’t any bruises in places that aren’t anywhere Brad gets hit during hockey. So, Carter’s not beating him up. It’s barely comforting to think about though. Psychological abuse is every bit as destructive…

He waits for Brad to be dressed again. “Hey, so. We gotta talk, man.”

“Okay. What’s up?”

 _Don’t chicken out don’t chicken out don’t chicken out, he needs your help._ “About Carter.”

“Why?”

“Because I know what he’s doing to you, Brad.” Patrice breathes in. “I know you don’t really realize what he’s doing, but I have. Every other week you come to practice or to a game looking like you’ve been crying, and you hardly ever go out with the guys these days. You always look worried when you leave to go home. And… please don’t say anything about how he’s not hitting you, I can see that he isn’t, but he’s still hurting you and that’s not okay. Please let me help. You’re my best friend and I don’t want this for you.”

Brad slowly sits down on the edge of his bed across the room, then puts his head in his hands. He’s completely silent about it and for several minutes it just stays like that.

“Marchy? Please say something… even if it’s just to say how much of a bastard you think I am for bringing it up,” Patrice finally begs.

“I just-” Brad stops. He shakes his head against his palms. “Uh. Fuck. Bergy, you know, everyone else always gets mad at me for being a jackass all the time, and. It just makes sense that Carter does too. If I wasn’t such a fuckup it wouldn’t be this way. Any problems going on are… I’m trying to be better.”

“No, Brad, no, that’s not true,” Patrice insists, getting up and trying not to run across the room. He sits and pulls Brad sideways into his arms. “Listen to me. The team only gets mad when you get suspended for stupid things, okay? And maybe sometimes you earn that a little bit, but in a relationship with someone you love - no, it can’t be that way. I’ve known you too long to think that’s what’s going on here. You’re a pain in the ass on the ice, but I’ve never had any friend who’s better than you, okay? I know the rest of the league hates you, but you’re a great guy and Carter’s clearly treating you like shit. He doesn’t deserve you at all.”

“But I’m - I’m not out, and… people don’t like that… they want to hold my hand in public… and… fuck, with that suspension this season and missing the Winter Classic and all that shit, my fucking career is… if people find out about me, what I really am, I won’t be a hockey player anymore. They won’t let me.”

“He’s fucking blackmailing you, Marchy!” Patrice hates this so much it’s actually making him swear. “Listen. You’re worth so much more than he seems to think you are. You should get to go home without being scared what he’ll say. You deserve someone who gives a fuck how you feel, and who loves you even when you do stupid shit, and who doesn’t-” No. Patrice stops just in time, because no way can he bring up the limping thing right now. He’s pretty sure he knows what that was, having thought about it, but that can’t be said here. Later. “Your boyfriend sucks and you need a new one. If he goes to the press, it’ll be a shit-show for a few months, but then something else stupid will come along and everyone will forget eventually. If the team wants to toss you for it, I’ll threaten to leave too unless they keep you. And you can come stay with me until you can get your life back in order.”

“But I love him.”

Patrice sighs. He strokes Brad’s hair with his palm, hopefully comforting. “I know. And that’s really hard. But nobody you love should ever, _ever_ hurt you.”

Brad clings to him, seeming small despite how stacked he is (height notwithstanding). The next confession is whispered. “I’m scared, Pat.”

“I know,” Patrice repeats, rocking him a little. “You have a lot of reasons to be scared about this. But I’m here, and I’m going to help you get out of this. It’s going to be really hard at first, but eventually things will get better again, I promise. You can stay at my place for as long as it takes, and if you want I’ll go everywhere with you so he can’t just ambush you out in the world, and then when you’re ready I’ll find you someone amazing who’ll love you so much you get spoiled. I’ll do everything I can to make things okay for you again, Brad.”

Brad shakily agrees, and Patrice feels most of the weight of guilt lift from his shoulders.

* * *

His friend goes back and forth on the decision the whole trip, but Patrice manages to re-convince Brad each time. On the plane ride back to Boston, Patrice sits next to him and holds his hand for reassurance. This is the right choice. Brad deserves better.

The car ride home: “So like, I’ll sneak in, grab some of my stuff, and then come back out to you. Then we leave. We can get the rest of my stuff later when he’s at work tomorrow,” Brad repeats. He’s babbling, and Patrice lets him because he’s clearly terrified.

“It’s one in the morning, so he’ll be asleep, right?”

“Probably. He may even be passed out drunk.”

Patrice watches Brad go into the house and waits. It’ll likely only be a couple minutes, Brad’s just going to grab some clothes. Then it’s been five minutes, and Patrice gets nervous. He reaches for his phone as a light turns on in the house - he can’t see through the curtains, but clearly there’s something going on. On a hunch, he calls the cops: “I think my friend is in trouble, can you send someone? He could get hurt.”

Patrice rolls down the window of his car to listen - it’s muffled, but he’s pretty sure that’s Brad and Carter yelling at each other. He feels glued to his seat waiting for the police to show up…

…right up until the moment he thinks he hears something smash.

Patrice throws himself out of the car and sprints to the door to go in, but it’s locked. He starts banging on it with his fist and shouting for Brad, because something’s going on in there and why the hell didn’t Patrice go in, too? Why didn’t they just wait to do any of this until tomorrow? What was he thinking? This was such a bad idea!

Then the door is flung open, Patrice is grabbed by the neck, and he’s being held to a wall. There’s something against his forehead right between his eyes, it’s cold and black and too close to focus on… but then he realizes it’s a weapon. Oh god, he’s going to die, he wasn’t smart about _any_ of this and now his head’s going to get blown off.

Carter is talking - well, hissing is more like it - but Patrice can’t hear a single word of it. His eyes aren’t working either, because he has no peripherals, so he has to strain them to the right to see that Brad’s in a pile on the floor, not moving, with a busted table lamp and a bleeding gash in his scalp. Patrice starts trembling as he looks cross-eyed back at the gun being pressed to the bridge of his nose. He can’t hear anything and he can barely see, and oh god Brad is just lying over there - and he’s not moving and he could be dead and Patrice can’t do anything, oh god, Patrice is about to die too and this is all his fault.

Shouting. No, screaming. Words.

There’s no gun on his head anymore. Patrice just stands there, shaking, unable to take in that the cops did, in fact, show up. Carter is now against a different wall, getting cuffed by one cop. The other one comes over and tries to talk to Patrice. He still can’t hear. He just shakes his head, _no, I don’t know what you’re saying to me,_ and then he remembers.

“Oh, shit, Brad!” Patrice bolts away from the wall and crashes painfully to his knees right into a pile of lamp shards, but that doesn’t matter. He grabs Brad and shakes, rolling him limply onto his back. Thank god, thank god, Patrice can see him breathing, he’s not dead…

EMS arrives and Patrice can hear Brad mumbling something as he’s loaded onto a stretcher. They’re both taken to the emergency room, where pieces of ceramic are picked out of Patrice’s knees. As he’s sitting on the table, wincing in pain, it’s only at that moment he realizes he managed not to piss himself with fear.

Patrice asks anyone within reach when he can see Brad, how is Brad, where’s Brad. He only gets the same answer: “We’ll let you know when he’s ready for visitors.”

Even once his wounds are taken care of and he’s discharged, Patrice doesn’t leave. He waits quietly in a chair and remembers 2007, getting a grade III concussion, when they said he was unconscious for several minutes and he was on injured reserve for forever. Quiet, dark rooms. Brad had been hit in the head with a fucking table lamp and laid on the floor unconscious while Patrice was seconds away from meeting god.

Randomly, it occurs to Patrice that he should let the team know what happened.

He pulls out his phone and leaves voicemail for Z, for Coach Julien, for the medical guys. He doesn’t get into detail, just says there was an accident and Brad got hurt. He thinks about calling his mother, then realizes it’s just shy of four in the morning and promptly passes out in the waiting room. He wakes up at about seven when the shift changes, is sent to the cafeteria for breakfast by somebody, and comes back up at ten because he’s pretty sure that’s when visiting hours are. Patrice sits for another hour and a half before someone calls out: “For Brad Marchand.”

He’s led into a (thankfully private) hospital room with the lights off and the shades closed. Brad’s laying there under those shitty hospital blankets, and Patrice can’t look away as he sits. He makes sure to stay quiet, because it’s obvious his friend got concussed like he thought.

“Bergy,” Brad grins, his eyes and voice dulled by painkillers. “You came. I knew you love me.”

“Of course I did,” he whispers. “I wouldn’t just leave you here alone after all that.”

“Okay…” Brad shuffles slightly. “’M all itchy and shit… but you look good. You’re still really cute like always.”

Patrice snorts and can’t help smiling. It hurts to find this funny, though, so it doesn’t last long. “I’m sorry you got hurt, Marchy. I should’ve gone in with you, or… we should’ve waited… I should’ve done something different.”

“Don’worry ’bout it,” Brad slurs, limply flipping one hand. “You should keep smiling. It’s too dark in here, but you’re so bright when you smile.”

Patrice tries not to be too loud when he laughs at that. “God, you’re so high right now.”

“Hell yeah. They got the best shit here.” Brad reaches out, landing a palm on Patrice’s wrist and grabbing. “You should hold my hand and shit… Bergy… I love you so much, okay? You’re waaaaaaaayyyyyy nicer than my boyfriend. And you’re cuter. I always liked you better anyway.”

Patrice doesn’t even know what to say to that, but it’s very obvious that Brad’s not fully present for this conversation, so that doesn’t really matter. Finally he gets out, “Uh, thanks, Brad. I’m flattered.”

And if Brad was saying these things sober, he would be flattered. As it stands, he’s just exhausted and sad and disappointed in himself for getting his best friend injured.

“Think I should fire him…” Brad’s mumbling, eyes rolling back and closing. “You can be my new boyfriend instead. I like you better…” And he falls asleep, still holding Patrice by the arm, presumably because of whatever they put into his drip.

Patrice gently rearranges their limbs so that he’s holding Brad’s hand instead. Then he reaches into his pocket for his phone and calls his mother.

“ _Maman,_ I got Brad sent to the hospital,” he whimpers, and thankfully manages to hold in his sobs enough that they won’t wake up his friend.

“Sshhh, dear, calm down, tell me what happened,” she prompts him gently.

Patrice explains everything between voice cracks and hiccups. “…and now he’s concussed and they wouldn’t let me see him until this morning. But - just - Christ, I thought he was dead for a second, and I thought I was going to die, and… I should’ve done better…”

“Patrice.” His mother’s voice is stern. “Did you know, going into that house, that Carter would have a gun?”

“N-no.”

“Did you ever think it would be a good idea to just sit and wait for Brad to come out on his own?”

“No.”

“Then please stop saying you could’ve done more. I think most people would’ve made the same choice. You’re safe now, Brad is also safe now. Carter is in jail. There’s going to be consequences, but you can deal with them tomorrow. Right now, your only job is to sit in that hospital room and be there for Brad.”

“I told him he can live with me for as long as he needs until he finds a place,” Patrice wavers. “He doesn’t even need to find a place after this, I’ll let him stay until the day he dies if that’s what he wants.”

“I know. You’re such a good friend to him, and don’t ever think you aren’t.”

“I just want him to be okay again.”

“Someday, he will be. It’s probably going to take a little while. Nobody gets over things like this overnight. But I know you’re going to try your best to help him, even if everyone else in your life told you not to.”

“Of course I will. Even if I didn’t feel so bad about letting this happen I still would.”

“Stop feeling so bad, dear. You still did your best.”

“Yeah, I guess. My best got him concussed… _maman,_ he… I told him I would keep him safe and I couldn’t…”

She quiets him as he’s about to start crying again. Patrice doesn’t think he’ll ever fully forgive himself for this, or that he can even forgive himself just a little to start with. This was his fault and nobody can convince him otherwise.

“Remember, dear, your only job right now is to sit with him.”

“Alright.”

“I love you, Patrice.”

“I love you, too, _maman._ ”

They hang up and Patrice sits for a little bit in the dim quiet, counting the beeps of the heart monitor for awhile because there’s nothing else to do. Z calls him briefly, and then the staff, all asking after Brad. Patrice mostly just tells them that there’s about to be a media shitstorm, but he can’t really talk about it. (He won’t talk about it because after all this he’s not going to just unceremoniously out his best friend over the phone.) He leaves out the parts where he almost got shot in the face and then shredded up his knees when he tried to help Brad, because those things aren’t important. Patrice tells them there will probably have to be a press conference, but that Brad really, really did nothing wrong and when they know what it is, they have no right to punish him. He makes sure he’s especially clear about that no matter how confused they sound from the other end.

At least those conversations are all over by the time Brad wakes up again. The first thing he says is distressing: “Don’t yell, Carter, I’m sorry…” Then his eyes open and find Patrice. “Oh. Bergy. Is he here? I bet he’s mad…”

“Brad, Carter got arrested after he tried to break your skull with a lamp,” Patrice answers, trying not to tense up and freak out as he says it.

“Oh, oh fuck, he’s gonna be pissed…”

“Hey, stop, okay? Don’t think about Carter right now, Marchy. He’s far away and he can’t hurt you.”

“But he-”

“Brad, listen to me. He got taken away by the police. He’s in jail. You’re going to press charges for everything he’s done to you, and I’m going to press charges too, because he tried to kill me when I went after you to try and help. He’s going to get locked up and even in however many years when he gets out I’ll never let him get near you again. Okay?”

“But… Carter…” Tears leak from the corners of his eyes, and Patrice remembers that he’s high on painkillers right now. “Didn’t want him to get put somewhere… just wanted him to stop being mean…”

“Marchy, he’s not going to stop being mean. We just need to keep him away from you. Okay? He attacked you last night. He clocked you with a light. That’s not okay, and it’s the back of your head that got hurt so I’m pretty sure he did it when you were trying to get away from him in the first place.”

“But Carter…”

It must be the exhaustion that says the next words, because Patrice would never consciously choose them, especially not in this situation. “Brad, you don’t need Carter. You’ve got me instead.”

Oh god, that sounds awful… but then Brad nods a little against his pillow and gives a short hum that sounds like he fully accepts this idea. “I got you instead.”

Well, if this will stop him from worrying about a guy who doesn’t deserve even the bad attention he’s capable of dishing out, then… “Yeah, Marchy. I’m here, you don’t need him and you never did. I’m going to take care of you and eventually we’ll make everything better again.”

Brad smiles, heartbreakingly sweet and trusting. “Okay, Bergy.” He squeezes Patrice’s hand a little. “I bet he was mean to you, too.”

“Yeah, he…” Patrice stops. Brad can hear about the near-shooting later. “Yeah, he’s not a nice guy. We need to find you a better boyfriend sometime.”

“What about you? You can be my boyfriend, Bergy. You’re already holding my hand, so…”

Because that makes sense as far as Brad’s concerned. Patrice can’t help smiling.

“There’s more to it than that, Marchy.”

“Why won’t you just be my boyfriend, Bergs?”

“Well, because I don’t date team mates,” he answers. “Julien would probably get mad about it.”

“Oh, fuck him,” Brad scoffs. “You’re perfect and I don’t want anyone else.”

Okay, so… yes, Brad’s impaired, but he seems like he’s being consistent. A tiny voice in Patrice’s head wonders if this is an echo of something that Brad thinks without the help of opioids and a head injury. It makes him feel terribly, horribly guilty, even more than he was already. Because if it’s true, that makes everything about the situation a thousand times worse.

Patrice can’t resist torturing himself further, though: “Well, if you like me so much, why have you dated other people before telling me?”

“’Cause you’re too perfect and I’m a short rat,” Brad giggles, squeezing his hand. “People only have rats by accident or as pets… I’m the accidental kind… like I go into cabinets and chew holes in cereal boxes.”

Patrice chuckles. Lots of people have called Brad that, either for being a pest or for being not conventionally good looking (or both), but really Patrice doesn’t think there’ll be that much of a problem finding him a new boyfriend. Brad’s really friendly most of the time, he of course has a sense of humor, and the features of his face are less important compared with how open and bright his expressions are. It’s impossible to miss how Brad feels about anything, and when he’s happy, it makes him handsome. Patrice imagines anyone he’s looking at lovingly will probably think he’s downright gorgeous, really.

“You’re not a real rat, Marchy. You can be cute when you want to be,” he smiles. “Once you’re ready, I’m going to help you find someone who thinks that, and who doesn’t mind how crazy you are.”

“Rather have you, Bergy…”

Patrice can feel himself turning red, now, because… he’s not exactly getting sick of hearing that. “I know, but I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t be practical, us being on the same team and all. A lot of people would get mad.”

“I don’t care,” Brad answers automatically.

Patrice can’t help laughing. “I know you don’t. It’s okay, Marchy. We don’t have to worry about it right now anyway.”

“But don’t you love me, Bergy?”

“You’re my best friend, Marchy, of course I love you,” he answers, because that seems safe.

Brad grins. “I knew it.”

Thankfully, there’s a light knock on the door, interrupting them. Patrice immediately stops being grateful when it’s not a nurse coming to do checks: it’s their captain.

“Z!” Brad yells, high and stupid and happy. “You came to see me!”

Z chuckles, coming over to sit in the other visitor chair. “Yes, I did. I understand you had a head injury.”

“Yeah, but it’s okay, they got the best painkillers here… and I got Bergy, too.” There’s no excuse for how strong Brad is right now, because he yanks Patrice over to the bed and hugs him one-armed around the neck. Patrice isn’t choking, but he does panic a little, because clearly Brad’s not going to let this go until his dose of narcotics has been lowered. “He’s my favorite.”

“Yes, we know.” The team captain grins knowingly at Patrice. “So, would anyone like to say how this happened?”

“Carter hit me with a lamp,” Brad blurts out, apparently not caring about the implications right now. “Bergy said he got locked up.”

“I see. Who’s Carter?”

“It’s okay, though, Bergy’s going to get me a new boyfriend,” Brad keeps going, almost completely ignoring Z’s look of shock. “I still think it should just be him instead, but he won’t listen.”

“Uh, look, Z, Brad really doesn’t know what he’s saying right now,” Patrice tries to intervene from where his head is still pinned to Brad’s chest.

“Is Carter really Brad’s boyfriend?”

“Well… hopefully not anymore. This has been going on for awhile. I was trying to help Brad get away from him and it didn’t go as well as it could’ve.”

Z nods slowly and looks back at Brad. “Marchy, why didn’t you say you have a boyfriend?”

“I thought everyone would be mad. Are you mad, Z?”

“No, of course not, I am only… very surprised. Also a little bit sad, that you didn’t think you can trust us. As far as I understand, the rest of the team feels like this also, we don’t care who you love, Marchy. We want you to be happy.”

“Really?”

“Of course.” Z looks back at Patrice. “What happened?”

He explains, quietly and carefully, finally admitting the part about the gun as well. His captain looks more and more horrified with every word. “We’re going to press charges. This guy needs to be kept away from Brad.”

Z nods wordlessly. He seems to be thinking for a moment. “How can I help?”

“You can stick up for Brad if Julien decides to punish him for being gay,” Patrice answers immediately. “That’s the first thing he’s going to need once he’s lucid again. He needs to know everyone’s standing behind him for this.”

“Alright, that won’t be a problem. It seems Marchy will be on injured reserve for some time after this, we’ll have to come visit him as often as we can.”

“He’s going to be at my place,” Patrice explains. “I’m going to take care of him until he can get his life back together.” He stifles a grin at Brad’s other hand starting to pat down his hair as if he’s a pet. “I’m also going to hire him a therapist and a really good lawyer.”

“I don’t need a therapist,” Brad announces, still fluffing Patrice’s hair.

“Not right this second, no, but you will in a few days,” Patrice assures him, ignoring how his neck and back are starting to cramp from being stuck in this position.

* * *

Brad is kept in the hospital for over a week, and Patrice only leaves twice - the first time to grab himself a couple changes of clothes, and the second time being the day before his friend is discharged so he can get things ready in his apartment. There’s no guest room, so Patrice decides he can sleep on the couch and Brad can have his bed until they figure out something better. Taking Brad home isn’t fun, because with his concussion subsiding and no more painkillers he’s now very quiet and withdrawn… Brad isn’t himself. Patrice expected it a little, but it’s still distressing.

“Since you can’t drive right now, I’ll drop you off at your appointment before practice tomorrow,” Patrice informs him as he pulls lunch out of the fridge. He can’t cook, so he’s got sandwiches and salads stockpiled for convenience. “I told them you can’t have the lights on already, too, so you won’t have to worry about that.”

“Okay,” Brad mumbles, accepting a fork but not eating. He picks at his food a little with an absent look. “I really don’t want to do therapy, Bergy.”

“I know you don’t, but it’s good for you,” Patrice answers, trying to sound soothing. “Believe me, Marchy, if I could do everything for you I would right now, but there’s stuff outside my scope so you need other people to help too. Here, don’t think about that, think about how you don’t have to actually go to that fucking press conference.”

“Only because I’m still dizzy when I sit up.”

“That’s not important. The PR team is doing all those things for you, so you can just hang out here and relax for a few days until we have to go talk to the lawyer. Just remember to try not to walk around too much, okay?”

“Yeah.”

Brad is sulking, and Patrice feels really bad so he sits next to his friend and side-hugs him. “How can I make it better?” he asks quietly.

“I really don’t want to keep talking about this shit,” Brad mumbles. “…and you can keep hugging me.”

Patrice complies.

* * *

For the first away game post-injury, Patrice worries himself sick being apart from Brad, but when he gets back everything’s more or less fine. Brad is allowed to start working out again on week three so long as he’s carefully supervised, and on week four he can start participating in morning skate again (but not actual practice yet). The first time he comes back, the whole team is happy to see him and gives him hugs. They all know, of course, but none of them makes a single comment about it except to say they’re glad he’ll be playing again soon.

* * *

Brad’s biggest issue most of the time is that the staff are pretty much forcing him to continue going to therapy, so the week it’s finally decided Brad can go to practice again in a no-contact jersey Patrice volunteers to go with him. This ends up with him talking about having a gun put in his face, and while it barely affects Patrice, Brad later admits that he feels a lot better about Carter being in jail now that he’s heard about this. He wasn’t fully aware of that story until now.

* * *

They start taking turns sleeping on the couch after Brad returns to the lineup for games, because he feels guilty about stealing Patrice’s bed. After a couple weeks of this, they both agree: the couch is a terrible place to sleep. There’s not really room for two beds, so Patrice just gets himself a slightly bigger bed that has space for both of them. For most people, this would be weird. For Brad and Patrice, it makes perfect sense - Brad will have a nice place to sleep and even once he leaves Patrice will have a huge bed to sprawl out on.

* * *

They don’t go to the playoffs this season, which… that’s not great for the team, but it is good for the two of them - the trial is happening in June and they’re way too stressed out about that to be effective for playoff hockey. For Patrice, this means more than a few reporters sticking mics and phones in his face, asking how it felt to be held at gunpoint and other tasteless questions that he doesn’t feel like answering. Most of the time, he manages to fight them off when they want to harass his friend, and each deflection is a tiny victory for him.

* * *

They both leave in May to visit their families for a couple of weeks, and Patrice’s instincts have all rewired themselves to a perpetual setting of _PROTECT BRAD MARCHAND_ but he says nothing about it because Brad probably needs a break from his hovering.

His mother hugs him when he gets to his parents’ house: “How is Brad doing?”

“He’s in Halifax right now. It’s probably a good thing we didn’t go to the playoffs, he’s nervous about the trial next month. I am a little, too.”

It’s such an understatement. Patrice will have to be in the same room as a man who held a gun to his head - he’s not enthusiastic about that idea at all.

“Yes, but how is he?” she repeats.

“Oh. Well, he still doesn’t like therapy. Once in awhile I’ll go with him, and that helps. He hasn’t said anything about wanting to see anyone new, so I’ve had to stop the guys from trying to set him up on dates a couple of times. He’s not ready. I don’t think he will be for awhile, but that’s okay. He’s doing a little better than he was last month.”

“Good,” she nods. “And how are you doing, dear?”

“Alright. I’m not the one who took a lamp to the head.”

“A man almost shot you,” his mother scolds. “It would be normal for you to have problems after that, Patrice.”

“He’s going to prison after next month. We have a very good lawyer.”

She sits him at the kitchen table and makes tea. “How often do you think of it happening, though?”

“Not that often,” Patrice lies. He once got accidentally trapped in the locker room by a team mate and freaked out; Torey had immediately backed up and apologized without even knowing what he did wrong, while Patrice curled into a ball in the corner for ten minutes while he tried to get his breathing under control again. “I’ll be fine once Carter is locked up permanently.”

“I’m going to ask again and I’d like you to tell me the truth this time, dear.”

“It’s not that bad,” he answers, still trying to downplay it. He’s not a great liar but it’s not going to stop him from trying because he doesn’t want his mother to worry about him. “When it happened, I could kind of see Brad… he was just lying there, not moving, and… I thought he was dead.”

Patrice drinks his tea and forces himself to relax. Carter’s not anywhere near him, and there’s no guns in this house. Brad is safely with his own parents in Nova Scotia. There’s no danger and he can stop worrying right now.

Then his phone rings. He looks at his mother: “Excuse me for a minute?” She nods and he answers without looking to see who it is, walking out of the kitchen as he does. “Hello?”

“It’s me, Bergy.”

“Hey, what’s up?”

“The sky. How about you?”

“I’m doing okay. Did something happen, do you need something? I’m in Quebec, obviously, but-”

“Jesus, Pat, no, nothing happened,” Brad chuckles, “but thanks for being concerned and shit. No, I just, uh, just wanted to see how you are. And my mom says hi. She’s really glad you keep helping me out.”

“Well, she’s welcome for that,” Patrice answers as if it’s not the hundredth time. “I’m doing alright. I just got here a few minutes ago, and my mom’s already trying to drown me in tea.”

Brad laughs from the other end, then he’s quiet for a moment. “I. Uh. I wish you were here, too. I mean I know you’re visiting your family and everything, but. I don’t know. Forget it.”

“It’s okay, what were you going to say?” he encourages.

“It’ll be weird sleeping without having to hear you snore all night.”

They both laugh. “You snore way worse than me,” Patrice counters, still smiling. “And sometimes you kick me in your sleep.”

“Only when you won’t stop rolling over constantly.”

“Oh, well, that makes it okay then!”

“It does,” Brad agrees, and Patrice can just _hear_ his indignant grin through the phone connection.

“My mom’s worried about you still, are you doing okay right now?” Patrice can’t help asking. It’s been less than fourteen hours since they last saw each other and he’s not actually asking on behalf of his mom, either.

“Yeah, I’m alright… look, this is stupid, but… I wish you were here.”

“To make me shoot poor innocent deer?” Patrice teases lightly.

“No. I just wish you were here. Shit, am I being too clingy or something?”

“It’s fine, you’re not too clingy. I miss you too, Brad.” _Even though it’s been less than a day._ “It’ll only be a week, though. When we get back, we’ll have junk food and binge-watch something on Netflix.”

“Perfect Patrice is going to let me eat junk food?” Brad fake-gasps. “Now I’m fucking excited, what kind of junk food are we thinking here?”

“Um, Chinese take-out?” Patrice shrugs. “And I’m still not perfect. Saying it over and over again doesn’t make it true.”

“Yes it does,” comes the stubborn, predictable answer.

Patrice smiles and tries not to laugh. Brad’s antics always get him somehow. “Whatever, Marchy. Just relax while you’re over there, okay? It’s probably good for us both to get out of Boston for a little bit before… you know. If you need anything, just call again, okay?”

“Thanks, Pat.”

“You’re welcome. Alright, I have to go, my mom will skin me if I don’t finish my tea.”

Brad laughs. “Okay, then. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Bye, Marchy.”

“Bye.”

* * *

Each night of the week that they’re gone, one of them will call the other one. They don’t talk about anything important, just tell each other what they did that day (usually very little) and compare notes on parents and siblings fussing over them. Brad’s mom has been hugging him more than usual and Patrice’s mom won’t stop asking him about almost getting shot as if that will somehow magically fix everything. Patrice realizes on the third night that he’s not worried about Brad being safe anymore, he just misses getting to see his friend every day.

After they’re both home again, it’s a slow countdown to the trial. Brad gets more and more nervous, and Patrice tries to calm him every way he can think of whenever he notices it escalating. Eventually he goes online and reads up on anxiety - there’s something called compression therapy, which is to use weight to gently squeeze the person and it’s soothing. This ends up being Brad face-down on the bed so that Patrice can lie on his back; it actually kind of goes both ways, too, because being able to feel Brad relaxing under him relieves his own stress. Twice, they actually fall asleep piled up like that.

* * *

They end up doing this the morning of the trial, too, and it seems to help because Brad manages to not lose it while he’s on the stand getting tortured by Carter’s defense attorney. The whole team shows up in support, too, which is good. It really shows Brad that they’re backing him a hundred percent. When it’s Patrice’s turn to be put through the wringer, he doesn’t look at Carter over at the defense side, he looks at the other Bruins sitting and watching. It keeps him from panicking, seeing how disgusted they are on behalf of him and Brad.

Carter is found guilty of assault and battery as far as Brad is concerned. Against Patrice, he’s charged with assault with a deadly weapon and attempted murder. He won’t be getting out of prison any time soon.

They’re two steps out of the courtroom when Brad crumples into a ball on the floor. The team immediately circles up, blocking him from view, while Patrice sits there holding and rocking him until he finally stops crying and can get back up again. It’s not bad, though… these are tears of relief, and Brad’s clearly just too exhausted to hold them in. That’s all it is. The nightmare is mostly over. Once they can get up from the floor and go home, the first thing both of them do is call their mothers to share the good news. After that, they spend the evening cuddled up on the couch with a pizza and some show on Netflix that Brad thought looked interesting.

* * *

The rest of the summer consists of calls from both their mothers, Brad going to therapy, and constantly avoiding the press. It’s starting to die down a little, at least, but there’s no getting around the fact that the Bruins’ most infamous player was in a bad relationship and said bad relationship almost got the Bruins’ most loved player murdered against a living room wall. Plus, nobody’s over the whole _Brad Marchand is gay_ thing. He’s the only man in the NHL who’s out, which is beyond sad considering that it’s 2016.

* * *

Then, right before preseason, this happens: “I have to do a press conference next week.”

Patrice raises both eyebrows. “About what? I thought they were done with that bullshit by now…”

“Uh, no, I-I’m choosing to do this,” Brad stammers, looking scared. “I talked to my therapist about it. She said she thinks it’s a good idea. It’s to. Um. Bring attention to the problems of domestic abuse, kind of. It doesn’t get talked about enough and shit, and since everyone knows this happened to me anyway…”

Patrice nods slowly. “Okay. Do you want me to come with you?”

“Yes,” Brad answers immediately. “Please. I keep watching your thing when you had that concussion, I need to be brave like you were back then.”

Patrice reaches out to rest both palms on his friend’s shoulders. “Brad. Look at me. You’re already _so_ brave. You went to court against Carter… a lot of people don’t do that. They just end up going back to the person who’s hurting them and they can’t escape. But you did, right? You’re brave and you’re strong and even if you don’t always feel like you are, just remember that me and Z and everyone else will always be in your corner. Okay?”

Brad nods, a little shaky. “Yeah, I know. Um. It wasn’t because of me that I went to court, though… I wasn’t going to until you said the thing about the gun. Fuck, Pat, he was gonna kill you…”

They pull each other in for a crushing hug. Patrice closes his eyes. “I know. It was awful… but the reason you did it isn’t important. The thing is, you still did it, even though you were afraid.”

“Yeah.”

* * *

So, three days before preseason starts, the two of them are sitting at a table with part of the Bruins PR team. It starts off with Brad monologuing into the cameras, giving a distressing play-by-play of his relationship with Carter and getting more and more pale with each word leaving his mouth. He talks about Carter pointing to his less than spotless career as reasons why people find him insufferable, brainwashing him into thinking that if he could just be less annoying then Carter would be nicer to him; he talks about not being out, and how Carter used that against him by saying that nobody else would put up with that, nobody else would be okay with him not holding their hand or kissing them in public.

Tears leak from the corners of Brad’s eyes as he admits that, at one point, he got pinned down by his neck and raped on the floor of his bathroom.

“It’s not - you’re not really thinking about, ‘this is what’s happening to me.’ You just-just kind of think, ‘if I try to move, I might hit him, then he’ll have a bruise and he can say I beat him.’ So. Uh. It’s like, ‘is my career worth fighting back? Will people believe me?’ And. I didn’t think anyone would. So I just had to stay there and let him do it. I don’t. Uh. I don’t think people realize how powerless you are. I mean, look at me, I’m in great shape and I get in fights for a living, and I couldn’t do anything to save myself. So. Next time, in some news story about this happening to a woman, you can’t ask that. Don’t wonder why she didn’t fight back. Don’t wonder if she’s lying to get attention. She’s being so fucking brave by just admitting it. Uh. Just. Uh. Excuse me, I’ll be-I’ll be back in a minute…”

Brad gets up and Patrice follows him. He can only stand and watch as his best friend finds the nearest trash can and throws up into it. Patrice waits for that to stop, then takes Brad to the bathroom and wipes his face for him with a wet paper towel. There’s no mattress around to squish him into, so Patrice grabs him for a hug and squeezes as hard as possible, hoping it’ll be enough. Brad’s trembling a little so Patrice rubs his back, too.

They go back and face the inevitable stupid questions.

“Why didn’t you leave Carter sooner?”

“I had Stockholm Syndrome.”

“Are you angry that only one of your team mates figured out what was happening?”

“No. I did my best to keep them from finding out. I was ashamed.”

“Mr. Bergeron, how did you find out this was going on?”

“My mother spelled it out for me. I wasn’t smart enough to connect the dots on my own, but I knew something was up for awhile, just not what it was.”

“And do you regret not being able to help sooner?”

“Of course I do, how can you even ask that? If your best friend was going through this, how would _you_ feel if you couldn’t help them? That’s how I still feel. I wish I could’ve done better.”

“Does this still affect your relationship prospects, Mr. Marchand?”

“Yeah. It’s probably gonna for awhile. But when I do get back out there, I know Bergy’s gonna personally inspect any guy who wants to get within like ten feet of me, so I’m safe.”

“How supportive has your team been, especially since you had to ‘come out’ suddenly?”

“They’re great. Coach had some concerns, but we talked things out. I know I already said this to tons of you people, but being gay has literally nothing to do with how good I am as a player. They all came to the trial, too… they’re good guys. The whole team is a family.”

“How has this impacted your friendship with your line mate?”

“He’s such a great friend. I know I always say stuff like that but… I don’t know if I could’ve survived this without him. Bergy’s always been there for me, but for this he went way above and beyond at everything. I’m so glad I have him, and I don’t know where I’d be right now if I didn’t.”

“Mr. Bergeron, would you like to add anything to that?”

“Yeah, I… I’m just trying to help as much as I can. Marchy shouldn’t have had to go through any of this, and there’s so much that happens to a person after it’s over. You have to be there for them constantly, they won’t always want to talk to you so you can’t make them. I had to do those things for him for awhile, and that’s okay. I never mind doing it, I never sit there and wish I could make someone else do it for me. I can help, so I do. I’ll always help him out if I can. And… and I know that sounds like a lot, but I still wish I could do more.”

When the questions finally stop and they can go home, Patrice really wants a nap, so he kicks off his shoes and sprawls on the mattress. Then the weight shifts and Brad’s there on his right, clinging to him and doing one of those breathing exercises that help stop panic attacks. He rolls onto his side and pulls Brad closer, not minding at all. Patrice just holds him for awhile, because the truth is they both need it.

* * *

Preseason starts normally enough, getting used to some rookies and reuniting with friends under much nicer circumstances than an attempted murder court case. Z does his captain thing, Patrice offers supportive talks to their new additions, and this is the most normal Brad has seemed in months - chirping and teasing on the ice, throwing balls of sock tape in the locker room.

* * *

Then their first exhibition game happens, and it’s… well, an interesting nightmare. Because Brad gets boarded two minutes in, and Patrice is close enough to hear Callahan call Brad a faggot and say something to the effect of no wonder he couldn’t “fight back against that guy.” Patrice doesn’t realize he’s flung his gloves and stick until he has a hand in Callahan’s jersey and his other fist is connecting with the guy’s jaw. Both refs and both linesmen come over to pry them apart.

“Boston number 37, five minute major for fighting. Tampa Bay number 24, double minor, charging and boarding.”

So, the Bruins will be down for a minute after the four-on-four has ended. Patrice can’t even pretend he cares, he wants to climb over the glass separating the boxes and break Callahan’s neck. Of course, after the first four minutes are up Patrice’s team mates make Callahan’s life hell, and Brad getting a shorty three seconds before the penalty kill ends makes it all the more satisfying.

They end up winning with no other goals scored during the game, but Patrice can’t blame Brad for sulking in the locker room as everyone’s changing. The others notice, too, and it takes about a second for them all to be patting Brad on the back and pulling him over for hugs. Patrice joins in, of course, already knowing he’s going to have to compress his friend once they get home. And that’s exactly what he does - lying there, with his face next to Brad’s ear, he just whispers: “You did so good, I’m proud of you.”

* * *

For the rest of the preseason, none of the exhibition games are anywhere near as unpleasant as that one, but it still seems like Brad attracts dirty hits even more than he already did and for some reason they never get called. Patrice wants to charge the refs, to grab them by their shirts and shake them until they get it: _How do you not see these things? How can you let them to this to him? How?_ It doesn’t really get worse, but it definitely doesn’t get better, either.

* * *

Their first game of the 2016-2017 season is against Columbus, and somehow a 6-3 win can still be a bitter victory. Because Brad gets cross-checked, slew-footed, hooked, slashed, and boarded… repeatedly. And not a single call is made. Patrice gets a fighting major early in the 3rd after his left wing is tripped and the refs still see nothing. Z actually goes over to the officials and yells at them for a solid minute and a half, which earns _him_ a penalty for delay of game. Brad gets back on the ice regardless, and finally, _finally,_ a Blue Jacket is sent to the box when he catches a high stick.

The next game, against Toronto, is not only a 1-4 loss but also sees Brad take an illegal check to the head, again with no penalty and somehow no suspension against the guy that did it even though Brad is forced to sit out the rest of the game in the quiet room. It’s unbelievable that this is being allowed. The following morning, Patrice calls the Players’ Association on Brad’s behalf and has a very long discussion with them about the issue - being an alternate captain, he’s allowed the privilege to stick up for his team mates when they’re being wronged, and by the end of that talk it’s impossible for him to make his feelings on the matter more clear. They promise to look into the problem, and Patrice wonders if they actually will.

He ends up waiting longer than he thought he would to find out; Winnipeg doesn’t seem to deliberately target Brad more than they otherwise would’ve, which is at least something, and the Bruins pull a 4-1 win out of it. Their next game is against the Devils. This sees Brad take an elbow to the face in the first eight minutes, and his attacker is immediately sent to the box and there’s talk of being assessed for a fine. Brad gets cross-checked into Tuukka’s goal and that player also draws a penalty. After that, the Devils seem to realize they can’t get away with beating Brad to a pulp, so they start playing actual hockey. It’s very gratifying that Brad and Patrice both score a goal in this game, getting them their second win in a row.

Things seem to improve after that, at least a little. Montreal and Tampa are still awful, but that’s nothing new. Brad keeps playing, even though there was one night where he was feeling so terrible that Patrice had to sit with him and talk him out of retiring early.

* * *

And then - Patrice doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget this moment, and it doesn’t help that it happens immediately following the dumpster fire of an election for the US president - he finds Brad in front of the bedroom mirror, just finished shaving (even though he did that this morning) and messing with his hair. He’s not dressed up, but he does look nice and he’s wearing cologne. Patrice feels like he’s been stabbed, but he forces himself to smile.

“Is this what I think it is, man?”

“Yeah, I… uh, I have a date,” Brad stammers, cringing at the sound of his own voice. “I’m so fucking scared, Bergy. I’ve never been scared so bad about this before, even though I wasn’t out back then.”

“Is there anything I can do to make it better?”

“Uh, I mean… not really. Look, I never actually met him, okay? Quaider set me up on a blind date. I can’t fucking believe I let him talk me into this.”

“Hey, if Quaider knows him, it’s probably cool,” Patrice decides. “Just… even if you end up liking this guy, don’t go home with him right away. Obviously.” He thinks for a second. “Date him for a little while, let him meet all your friends first. If any of us, especially me, thinks something’s up we’ll tell you. Oh my god, Marchy, here.” Patrice does his hair for him. “You look great. You _are_ great. What’s this guy’s name?”

“Troy.”

“Yeah. Troy’s going to be falling over himself to get a second date with you, Marchy. You’re bright and you’re friendly and you’re really funny, and I know nobody else thinks so including you, but you’re cute, too. Okay?”

Brad grins and nods, seeming relieved. “Okay. Thanks, Pat.”

Patrice hugs him and sends him on his way… and the second Brad’s out of the apartment, he sits down and cries. He’s scared, too. He’s scared of what could happen to Brad out there, of what this Troy will be like, of possibly having to go through everything all over again if Troy turns out to be like Carter. Randomly, Patrice thinks of how he compresses Brad when Brad is freaking out about something, and realizes he’s having a panic attack. Knowing he’s panicking just makes it worse, and he wishes Brad was still here to lay down on him and squish him into the bed so that he can feel safe for once.

Breathing exercises… Patrice has guest-starred in Brad’s therapy sessions enough times to know what those are. He tries some of them and they don’t help, not even a little, and there’s nothing he can weigh himself down with. So he ends up getting into the shower, clothing and all, turning the temperature up as high as he can stand and sitting under the stream curled into a ball. Eventually the sensation of scalding droplets pelting his skin brings back some clarity, and Patrice unfolds, instead leaning back against the wall in his sopping clothes. Now he just feels exhausted, but he can convince himself that Brad’s going to be fine. That’s all he wants - he wants his best friend to be okay again.

Patrice turns off the water and struggles out of his drenched shirt and jeans. He wrings them out as much as he can before putting them in the hamper, then his socks, then his underwear. He finally towels himself off and puts on pajama bottoms and an undershirt even though it’s only seven at night, then heats some store-bought vegetable soup for dinner and sits in the corner of the couch flipping endlessly for awhile. Without the panic, with just the fatigue, Patrice feels… he doesn’t know how to put it into words. Like he lost something important and it’s not coming back, even though he’s not actually sure what that “something” is. Even more unexpected is a strange sense of - inadequacy. Almost as if he did something wrong, or he didn’t do something that he should’ve, and so now he’s not good enough…

None of that makes sense, so Patrice tries not to think about it, settling on one of those dumb cooking shows for white noise and disinterestedly eating his soup. The soup makes him kind of lonely, because he doesn’t know how to cook so Brad always does it - and Brad’s really good at it, too. He’s as handy with a frying pan as he is with a hockey stick, and Patrice makes a mental note to tell Brad how appreciated that skill really is once he gets home from his date.

It’s been almost two hours when Brad returns. He’s in an odd mood when he does.

“So… I’m going on a second date in a couple weeks.”

“You like him, then?”

“Yeah, kinda…” Brad sounds distressed. He kicks off his shoes, tosses his jacket in the corner and drops into a heap on the couch, crawling up it to Patrice and clinging like Patrice is the only thing anchoring him to the world. “It’s not because of Troy… I just… he’s really nice. I like him. But like. I really should’ve just said I’ll call him or something, not a second date. I’m so fucking not ready for this shit. Now I feel bad about it, too. He’s a really nice guy and I’m dicking him around.”

Patrice is this close to offering to go with him, like with therapy. He stops himself from saying anything, though, because as much as he wants to be there for Brad he thinks that would be stepping over some kind of line. He can’t helicopter over Brad all the time.

“You’re not dicking him around, Marchy,” Patrice soothes, playing with Brad’s hair a little before smoothing it back down again. “If you really don’t want to see him again so soon, just call him and tell him that. If you do, make sure he knows it’s not because of him, and that later on you might be ready to see him again.”

“Yeah…” Brad goes limp, sinking against Patrice and sighing. “Maybe I’ll just. I’ll still go, and I’ll tell him I want things to just be casual for awhile or whatever.”

“That’s fine, Marchy. If you’re not ready, then you’re not ready, and you don’t need to rush into things.”

“I know.” Brad nods against his chest. “It’s been like nine months or some shit, though. Aren’t you sick of me by now?”

“No, of course not.” Patrice swallows his pride. “Actually… I was kind of lonely without you here earlier, I don’t know how to cook…”

“Oh, I see how it is,” Brad snorts. “You keep me around for my food!”

Patrice laughs and hugs him. “That’s only one of several reasons. You also gave me an excuse to get a nicer bed. Besides, my life is never boring when you’re around.”

Brad raises his head with a curious frown: “Really?”

“Yeah,” Patrice nods, smiling. Brad settles against him again after a second. “I almost don’t need tv anymore, you’re way more entertaining.”

“In a good way, right?”

“Usually.”

* * *

Life goes back to normal the next day and remains that way. The issue being that Brad and Patrice’s new normal is Brad still getting the shit beat out of him by any number of opponents during a game, and the refs only call penalties about half the time. When Brad fights back, though, it always gets called. This obvious double standard means Patrice and Z both contact the Players’ Association this time. Brad tries not to be discouraged - really, he tries - but Patrice can see it starting to break him a little. It raises the question, too - why, exactly, is this happening? Is it because Brad is gay, or because opposing players think he wasn’t “man enough” to push back against Carter? Either one is awful, of course, but for some reason Patrice thinks if he knew the answer then he could do something about it.

It pretty much stays like this for the rest of the season. Brad unable to maintain or even fully start a new relationship, even though it’s obvious that he really wants to. Patrice endlessly talking to the Players’ Association and getting empty promises in return. At least four penalties per game that don’t get called, because they’re things being done to Brad and, Brad being a _faggot_ and all, the refs clearly feel he isn’t worth protecting.

* * *

Patrice has had enough.

March 23 against Tampa (of course) sees Patrice knock Callahan on his ass, then skate over to the ref and jab him in the chest with his glove: “Why aren’t you going to do your job?! Callahan just slew-footed him and you still haven’t whistled!” He shoves the ref - actually, technically, he cross-checks the ref. “How do you like it?! This happens to him every game and none of you ever fucking make calls for it! Here, have a second one!” Patrice cross-checks him again. He can sense the other officials behind him, about to grab him, so he speeds up and shoves the guy he’s decided to take out his anger on a third time. “If they did these things to me, you would call it! If they did these things to Z or Quaider or Tuuks, you’d call it! But you never call it for Marchy! Why is that, huh?! Why can’t you _do your fucking job_ when it comes to him?! When we do shit wrong, it _always_ gets called, especially if Marchy’s the one fucking up! You don’t get paid to play favorites! _Be more fucking fair!_ ”

Patrice jabs the ref in the shoulder hard enough to throw him off-balance and send him sprawling, then pegs his stick at the other three as hard as he can and immediately goes to the box. He already knows this will be bad, he’s in huge trouble for this, never mind the point he’s trying to make. It’ll be all over the internet by the end of the next thirty seconds: Perfect Patrice losing his shit on a referee.

Patrice is ejected from the game for unsportsmanlike conduct and suspended for the next one as well.

It’s never happened before, but he’s actually surprised it isn’t worse than that. It’s also not important. He won’t get to play against the Isles two nights from now, but that doesn’t mean anything. This will be all over the place, there will be press asking him about it, and he might actually be able to get his point across. He’s done letting his best friend get stomped on by the league and that’s all there is to it.

They get home and take turns compressing each other against the mattress. Patrice lets himself sink in, the weight and warmth of Brad against his back making him feel secure. He can see why Brad likes it so much when he’s the one doing the pressing, it’s very soothing.

The next thing, though, is anything but. “Bergy… maybe I should just leave after this season.”

“No, Marchy, you can’t. Your contract hasn’t expired yet.”

“Yeah, but…”

“No buts. What kind of message does that send to other people? All those kids who watch you and love you, you’ll be telling them to give up just because they’re gay. You’ll be telling them it’s not okay to be who they are, and nobody wants them, so they should just quit and not play hockey. And all of us, we get so much shit for keeping you around, but we do it because you’re our friend and we love you. And what about me? I can’t play without you.”

“Yes you can,” Brad scoffs.

“Yeah, I guess I still can,” Patrice cedes, “but I don’t want to. I’m better with you on my line. The whole team is better with you in it. Please don’t quit, Marchy. You have no idea what it would do to everyone.”

“But I got you suspended,” Brad whimpers, getting up so that Patrice can roll over and cuddle him instead.

“It’s just one game,” Patrice murmurs, pulling him in close with one hand while rubbing his back with the other. “It’s going to get a lot of attention, so maybe things will get better now. One game is worth it for that, because you matter and you deserve better.”

Brad nods against his shoulder. “Can you squish me some more?”

“Yeah,” Patrice agrees, rearranging them both to do just that. Given how long they’ve been doing this exercise, he doesn’t know why it’s only now that it occurs to him to ask: “Hey, how come you’re so okay with it?”

“Okay with what?” Brad mumbles, already relaxed.

“With… me, pressing you down and all…”

“Oh. Uh. Well, for one thing you don’t have me in a fucking choke hold,” Brad answers dryly. “Also you don’t smell like booze. Plus, come on, Bergy, it’s you. I know you’d never hurt me. You think I’d let anyone else do this?”

“Okay, then. I’m really flattered you trust me so much, Marchy.”

“You’re the only one I could ever trust with this,” Brad admits quietly. “You’re so safe and familiar. I have dreams sometimes where I get buried in a hole in the ground and then you always show up to dig me back out again.”

That makes Patrice feel warm all over, and he smiles. “I’ll always dig you up, Brad.”

“I know. I know you will.”

* * *

Sitting out the game against the Isles isn’t fun, of course, but on the plus side this team is one of the ones that’s less hostile to Brad, so the accidental-on-purpose attacks are nothing beyond what they were at the beginning of last season. A 2-1 win and there’s only seven games left until the playoffs. For the first time, Patrice isn’t as excited about it as he is crippled by anxiety. He’s so stressed out and playoff hockey is brutal, so the frequent attacking of Brad will be three times as bad as it is now, and sure Brad can take care of himself most of the time but he’s breaking under the strain of all the hate…

Seven regular season games and six playoff games later, it becomes a non-issue since Ottawa knocks them out in the first round. Patrice hates himself so much for being relieved, because he’s exhausted and he knows Brad is, too. Plus they’re still getting used to having Bruce Cassidy as their head coach after Julien was finally fired, but at least Cassidy is taking the discrimination against Brad much more seriously than Julien did. Currently, now they’re out of the playoffs, their new head coach is in the process of raising hell on Brad’s behalf against the Players’ Association and their lackluster attempts to fix the situation.

* * *

This summer is spent essentially the same as the last one, fending off the occasional reporter and talking to lawyers. This time, though, it’s mostly about how the NHL can’t keep getting away with that they’ve been doing to Brad and how the issue can be fixed. Brad, besides that, keeps trying and failing to get back to normal. Because he meets a guy he really likes, goes on a few dates, and then has a panic attack and gives up. Jimmy doesn’t last, just like Gary before that, and Andre before that, and Sam before that, and Troy before that. Each time Brad starts seeing someone, Patrice feels like he’s been hit with a brick no matter how hard he tries to be happy for his friend, but it also hurts when things inevitably fall through because he can see how much anguish Brad suffers from it.

* * *

At an ice cream stand, the last week of July: “I’m going to die alone, Bergy.”

Patrice rolls his eyes, but not in a malicious way so much as an _I-love-you-man-but-you-gotta-stop-this_ way. “You’re so dramatic, Marchy… someday you’ll meet the right guy, who doesn’t give you panic attacks. You’ll like spending time with him so much that he’s all you think about when you’re not on the ice, and then you’ll marry him and probably have too many pets. I promise, it’ll happen. Probably not tomorrow or next week or even next month, but it will. He’ll cuddle you off to sleep every night and whenever you’re scared of something he’ll kiss you over and over until you feel better… and I don’t want to hear anything about how annoying you think you are, because you’re lovable, god dammit, and anyone who doesn’t think so isn’t worth your time.”

Brad laughs, but he still looks sad underneath. “If you say so, Pat.”

Patrice isn’t sure what’s wrong, because usually when he says these things he succeeds at making Brad feel better. Today it doesn’t seem to be working. “Hey, what is it?”

Brad shakes his head and looks away. “Nothing. Just… nothing. Never mind.”

“Marchy, c’mon, you know I’ll do anything I can to help if you just tell me,” he prods, keeping his voice gentle.

Brad shakes his head. “Eat your ice cream, bro, it’s about to melt all over your hand.”

Well then. It looks like Brad really, _really_ doesn’t want to talk about this, so Patrice can’t force him. He does start eating his ice cream instead of pressing the issue, wondering what can possibly be so bad that his friend won’t tell him what’s going on. It’s worrying. Until now, Brad hasn’t outright refused to discuss anything with Patrice since that time Patrice heard him crying in the locker room shower.

Apparently he’s being too obvious about how hurt and confused he is, because now Brad’s the one wearing the eye-roll (even complete with an exasperated groan). “Oh my god, Bergy, don’t worry about it. It’s nothing.”

“It’s clearly causing you pain,” Patrice can’t help arguing. “Brad, please just let me help…”

“You can’t,” Brad mumbles. He looks at his feet. “It’s really stupid, okay, and even you would tell me this is stupid.”

“No I won’t, I promise. Now what is it?”

“I have a thing for a straight guy. It’s fucking me up kind of a lot.”

Patrice raises his eyebrows, because that’s… exactly not what he was expecting. “Um. Okay. That’s not stupid, Marchy, and I can see why it bothers you so much. First of all, how do you know he’s straight?”

“I’m not answering that. He’s straight.”

“Fine, whatever, I’ll take your word for it. How did you get hung up on this straight guy?”

“Yeah, I’m not answering that either.”

Patrice frowns, then gasps even though he just told Brad not to be dramatic. “It’s someone we both know, isn’t it? Bradley, is it one of our team mates?”

“Oh my god! You’re the literal fucking worst sometimes, how can you even ask that?”

“Okay, so that’s a yes…”

“Fuck you, Bergy.”

“That’s a _definite_ yes. Marchy, just because you’re the only one who’s out doesn’t mean all our team mates are straight, okay? Is he seeing anyone right now?”

“No, but… Bergy, seriously. He’s straight. He’s not interested in me. I’m not talking about this anymore.”

“Maybe you should talk to him about it.”

“No.”

“Brad, who is it?”

“No.”

“Marchy-”

“ _Will you fucking drop it?_ ” Brad hisses, probably not yelling because they’re in public even though he clearly wants to. “You can’t fix this. If there was a way to fix it, I would’ve fucking done it already. Just for once, Bergy, let this one fucking thing go. There’s nothing you can do.”

Patrice feels himself deflate as he nods. “Okay, Marchy. I’m sorry for pushing.”

Brad clearly needs some space, given that he avoids Patrice for the rest of the day, so Patrice sleeps on the couch that night… well, he tries to. He’s so used to his friend quietly snoring on his right, occasionally twitching or mumbling. Without those noises and movements, Patrice’s eyes won’t stay closed, and all he can do is lay there thinking. Eventually he falls asleep, but he only stays that way for about four hours, because he wakes up at 6:30 and can’t drift off again - there’s too much light coming into the apartment. So instead he gets up and starts to make coffee, because why not. There’s no point in lying back down.

Arms - standing at the coffee maker, watching it drip slowly into the pot, Brad is leaning against his back and hugging him. Patrice immediately turns around and returns it, and it’s a feeling of relief the same way it stops hurting when a splinter gets pulled out of his finger. Brad’s expression is something along the lines of _I-was-pretending-to-be-mad-but-I-was-actually-really-sad-about-something-and-shutting-you-out-just-made-it-worse-please-love-me._ Patrice keeps hugging him: _of course I forgive you, Marchy._ Neither of them waits for coffee; Brad goes back to bed and Patrice follows him on an impulse. They fall asleep cuddling and don’t wake up again until almost noon.

* * *

Brad goes on a couple more dates before the preseason starts, attempting to get over this mysterious “straight guy” he’s pining after, but Patrice can tell it’s not working. Whoever this guy is, he must really be something, but it has Patrice hoping to god that the guy’s not actually straight because he really wants Brad to be okay. It could be complicated, if this guy is one of their team mates like he guessed, but… but Brad really likes him, whoever he is, and Brad deserves to be happy again. (On the other hand, if this hopefully-not-straight guy can’t see that Brad is drooling after him, then he might not be good enough to deserve Brad’s attention in the first place.)

* * *

When preseason starts, Patrice looks around the locker room, wondering who it could be. Dobby? Krej? Kevan? Quaider? No, all of them are involved or married, and Brad said this guy is single. That doesn’t leave many options. Almost everyone on the team has somebody, except for the rookies and there’s no way in hell it’s one of them.

“Bergy, you can’t frown so much, you’ll get wrinkles and then half your fanbase will have to look elsewhere for their hot guy fix,” Quaider chirps from the corner.

“I don’t think you’re giving his fans enough credit,” Brad laughs as he’s taping his socks. “Even straight guys want to bang him, they’ll be drooling until the day they die.”

 _What’s your thing about straight guys right now, Brad?_ Patrice wonders.

He turns off that part of his brain for practice, only thinking hockey as he gives pointers to their new kids and reconnects with the other veterans. On the ice, there’s no room for Brad’s relationship problems, just the tracking of pucks and the teaching of rookies. Which means that the second he’s pulling his practice jersey back off, it all comes crashing back down like a ceiling collapsing on his head. It’s always been like this for him, tuning out all but his job and then his injuries and personal problems ambush him the second he’s done skating for the day.

Patrice casts another glance around at his team, but nobody seems likely. Who’s Brad’s straight guy? There’s only three men on the team who are completely unattached right now (again ignoring the rookies), Patrice included, but Spooner had needed a tiny bit of convincing at first to not treat Brad differently once the team found out he was gay and Nash just isn’t his type, so-

Wait.

No.

No, that can’t be it.

 _Oh god, please let me be wrong,_ Patrice thinks desperately, feeling like he’s just been whacked in the face with the flat of a goalie stick. It can’t be him. It really, really just can’t be. Shit. No, no, he needs to be wrong, he’ll talk to Brad as soon as they’re home and then Brad will start laughing at how ridiculous this all is, and things will be okay again. (Everything Brad said when he was high on painkillers still means nothing. He was impaired. People on opioids say stupid things they don’t mean all the time.)

At home in the kitchen: “Pat, are you feeling okay? You look like you’re going to puke and you didn’t say anything since we left the rink.”

“Um, yeah, no, I’m fine.”

“Well, which is it, yeah or no?” Brad questions.

“Marchy… uh… so, I just had kind of an insane thought earlier and it freaked me out for a second, but there’s no way it’s actually true… this straight guy of yours…”

“No, Bergy, I still don’t want to talk about that-”

“Just let me finish, please? It’s not me, right?”

Patrice waits for Brad to snort, to burst out laughing, to roll his eyes and say “you’re so stupid sometimes, Bergy, of course it’s not you”, but… he doesn’t. He just freezes where he is, eyes huge, as all the blood leaves his face. It’s an expression of such pure fear that Patrice wonders for a second if this is the face Brad wore for Carter, and that just makes him sick. He can’t believe he did this to Brad.

“So… I think… I think I should, um, I think I should-I should start looking for a place,” Brad stammers, dropping his eyes to the floor like he wishes he was sinking into it.

Patrice hates himself so much right now. How could he not see this? All the snuggles and hugs and touching, this whole time he’s been leading his best friend around by the dick without realizing it.

“Marchy-”

“No, um, it’s okay,” Brad croaks, even though it so obviously isn’t.

“Fuck, Brad, please don’t look at me like that,” Patrice begs. “Don’t look like that, okay? You look like you think I’m going to hurt you…”

“I don’t… um… yeah, okay, I’m sorry,” he whimpers, frantically wiping his eyes. “I know you won’t hurt me, Bergy.” And then he’s sobbing into his hands.

Patrice normally just pulls Brad over for hugs without even thinking about it, but this time he doesn’t. Because Brad was lying. He was clearly freezing up and expecting some kind of pain, and that just amplifies Patrice’s current self-loathing by about a thousand - until now, Brad has never been scared of him. It’s enough to make him wish that he’d been shot by Carter back then, because he fucking deserves it right now.

“Brad,” he whispers, slowly reaching over to rest a palm on his friend’s shaking arm, “I don’t know what I did, but I’m sorry… fuck, Marchy, I’m so sorry, whatever I did that scared you just now - please, tell me what it is so I can undo it…” As he talks, he gradually moves Brad in. At first, as Patrice starts to hold him, Brad flinches, but after a second he plunges his face into Patrice’s shoulder and clings. “It’s okay, I promise, there’s nothing here that can hurt you and even if there was it would have to go through me first…”

Vaguely as he says these things, it occurs to Patrice that maybe he’s not helping because it’s this exact behavior that made Brad start to have feelings for him. But… he can’t not do it, and even if he could, what else would he do right now?

Even once Brad has cried himself out, Patrice doesn’t let go, sensing that he really needs it. “Can I just ask something?” Brad nods, not raising his face from Patrice’s shirt. He takes a breath. “How long?”

Brad shrugs, and for a second Patrice thinks that’s all the answer he’s going to get. Then: “I don’t know. How many years has it been since we won the Cup?”

“More than six…?”

“Yeah. So. Almost seven years. I can’t really tell you when, just that it was like, a few months before we won the Cup together.”

Which means… this was before Brad’s recent string of not-really-relationships. It was before Patrice was taking care of him. It was before Carter… it was before everything. And Brad has apparently been crushing down these feelings for almost seven years. That’s such a mastery of ignoring problems, way beyond the level Patrice can achieve while he’s on the ice. Forget being shot in the face, Patrice thinks maybe he deserves to be burned at the stake or something for causing his friend so much pain.

“I guess I did hurt you,” Patrice whispers.

“It’s okay… you didn’t mean to,” Brad answers.

“I’m still sorry that I did.”

“Do you even see the fucking irony?” he friend wonders. “Like. All those times, you were describing, ‘oh there’s some guy out there for you, he won’t care that you’re insane and he won’t give you panic attacks and he’ll cuddle you every night, Bradley.’ And you were fucking describing yourself the whole time, man. But you’re still a straight guy. Obviously I can’t do anything with that.”

Thinking about this, Patrice turns everything over. Even not knowing what was really going on until now, Brad has always made him feel appreciated and loved. He panicked the first time Brad went on a date post-Carter, and each time after that when Brad was meeting a new guy Patrice died a little on the inside. The idea right now that Brad will find his own apartment after this is unbearable. Because this is a thing, apparently. Just like Patrice couldn’t figure Brad out until today, he also couldn’t figure himself out, either.

“Marchy?”

“Yeah.”

“Uh, here’s the thing.”

“What?”

“I may be less straight than you think I am.”

“I’ve seen you go on dates with women. Tons of times. I feel like it would’ve come up earlier than this.”

“Well, maybe I’m just a dumbass,” Patrice suggests, and finally, _finally,_ Brad snorts.

“So, what, you’re gonna start dating guys too now?”

“Just the one guy, hopefully. Do you want to have dinner with me tomorrow night?”

“You’re not funny,” Brad answers.

“I’m not trying to be funny, I’m asking you to go on a date with me.”

“We always eat dinner together anyway,” Brad points out. “So you need to come up with something better than that. Plus I always cook for you since you never bothered to learn how, so that’s not special.”

“Okay, then. I’ll come up with something special,” Patrice decides. And he will. He owes Brad that much and more for putting him through the wringer like this. “I’ll do everything I can to make it up to you.”

“Oh my god, you need to stop,” Brad interrupts.

“Okay, but why?”

“Because you’re too perfect and I’m going to start crying again if you keep being so nice to me.”

“But I want to be nice to you,” he frowns. “Nobody else ever is and you deserve it…” Brad is pressing his face into Patrice’s shirt again, so Patrice starts rubbing his back. “It’s okay, Marchy. You can cry as much as you need, I’m not going anywhere.”

And Brad does. Patrice will stand here like this for as long as it takes, because Brad is in pieces and it’s up to him to find them all and glue them back into a cohesive whole. He’s going to have to call his mother again and ask her for advice, because he’s never dated another man before and maybe it’s different somehow, but his mother knows everything so she can tell him what to do. Besides that, though, Brad is still a little broken and Patrice isn’t really sure how to finish fixing him, so he needs advice about that too.

Patrice remembers the first time he made Brad cry without meaning to. It was shortly post-Carter, Brad was still technically concussed and had laid down on the couch. Patrice finished putting some of Brad’s things into the closet and came over: “Hey, can I sit?” He just wanted to watch tv with Brad. Brad had immediately sat up completely straight, wedging himself into the corner of the couch. “I’m sorry.” Patrice sat down and frowned. “Why are you sorry?” “I’m in your way.” And that kept happening, over and over again, Brad constantly apologizing for things nobody else would be sorry for. It took over a week for Patrice to figure out that this was a conditioned response, so he’d put both hands on Brad’s shoulders and made it impossible to refuse eye contact. “Marchy. You don’t have to be sorry all the time. You didn’t do anything wrong, so you don’t need to apologize, okay?” And it ended up with Brad crying into his shirt the same as right now.

Eventually Brad remembers to do his breathing exercises and calms down a little. He still doesn’t let go of Patrice, and Patrice doesn’t let go of him either. “I got your shirt all wet.”

Patrice laughs and squeezes him a little. “It’s okay, I have other shirts.” He bends his neck a little to rest the side of his face in Brad’s hair. “Do you feel better?”

“Yeah, a little.”

“Good.” Patrice closes his eyes. “So about that date.”

“I was kidding before. Dinner is fine, Bergy.”

“No, I really want to do something different, all your dates are you going to dinner with some guy. So instead we’re going to lie on the roof with a blanket and watch the stars come out, since it’s not too cold for that yet. It’s relaxing, we won’t have to get dressed up, and I’ll be able to snuggle you the whole time.”

Brad chuckles. “That does sound really nice… and even if we did end up going to dinner, you’ll never be ‘some guy,’ Pat. It’s stupid how long I’ve had a thing for you.”

“So what’s different about dating guys?”

“Well, for one thing, I’m less squishy and I have a dick,” Brad jokes. “But besides that I have no idea. The last time I had a date with a girl I was fourteen, it was also the first time I went on a date with a girl and it was more than enough to convince me that I didn’t want to date girls. Uh, sometimes I also have stubble if I’m lazy and don’t shave.”

“Or a scraggly playoff beard.”

“Yeah, or that.”

Things are okay again, at least for now. They finally detach from each other so that Brad can make food and Patrice can put on a clean shirt, and then he calls his mother. She’s completely unsurprised to hear that the two of them have decided to start dating.

* * *

The next day, there’s an interesting development - one of their new players, DeBrusk, catches Patrice as they’re finishing up and the rest of the team is heading back to the locker room. “Uh, can I ask about something real quick?”

“Sure,” he nods, and they start skating a slow lap around the outside of the rink.

“Is it… is it actually okay to not be straight on this team, or is it only okay for Marchand because of who he is? Because, uh, one of my friends was asking me about it and-”

“Jake, stop,” Patrice chuckles. “Don’t give me the ‘asking for a friend’ routine, okay? Yes, you’re safe here, and if anyone gives you a hard time, send them to me and I’ll have Marchy beat them up for you.”

“Okay, but…”

“What?”

“This is really stupid, but…”

“You’re not stupid, and I’m not going to laugh if that’s what you’re worried about. Now go ahead.”

“I kind of like Charlie and that’s bad for team chemistry.”

Patrice rolls his eyes. “Who told you that?”

“Nobody here, but… when I was in school-”

“You’re not in school anymore, and whoever said that to you is a jackass,” Patrice insists. “Listen. I’m not going to tell you that you have to out yourself, because you don’t, it’s entirely up to you. But I will tell you that last season the guys have been trying to set up Brad on dates the same as they would if he was straight. Your team is your family in the NHL, unless you do something really awful, which you haven’t. You’re still new but you’re in our family now, and we’re going to take care of you. I’m also not going to tell you that you have to talk to McAvoy about this, because that’s also your choice, but you’ll never know for sure unless you do. Does that help?”

DeBrusk frowns a little, but he nods eventually. “Yeah. Thanks, Bergy.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Do you think… if I do talk to him, should I do it before I’m out?”

“I can’t really answer that, I don’t know him that well yet. He seems like a good kid.” He treads carefully with his next words. “I once knew someone who liked someone else for seven years before finally telling them. Turns out that person liked them back, so all that waiting was just wasting time. Take that for what it’s worth, of course.”

“I think I’ll talk to him first, then,” DeBrusk decides. “Uh, what will coach say?”

“Bruce spent the whole summer kicking the ass of the Players’ Association for letting Brad take too many dirty hits just for being gay. He won’t have a problem with you. And before you ask, Z won’t mind either.”

“Hey, Bergy!” comes Brad’s voice from across the ice. “Are you done babysitting yet? You have a date to get ready for!”

Patrice laughs. “Yeah, we’ll be done in a second.” He turns back to DeBrusk. “Are you going to be okay, now?”

“Yeah, I think so. Thank you.”

* * *

Throughout the preseason, Patrice can’t help noticing a few parallels. Brad is an affectionate guy anyway, but he bumps Patrice more, touches more, is slightly clingy (but in a good way); Jake and Charlie are always talking, always near each other given the chance, knocking shoulders and helmets. Patrice doesn’t rush Brad into anything but after a couple of weeks they graduate to kissing, and one morning while Patrice is distracted by someone talking to him Brad winds their arms together with sock tape as a joke; Charlie is constantly a little bit late anyway, but one morning he’s _really_ late getting in and Jake also shows up late, which is unusual.

* * *

Their last practice during preseason: “Oh my fucking god you guys, be more obvious!” It takes Patrice a second to realize this is being yelled at Jake and Charlie, not him and Brad. At least Anders looks amused about it and not hostile - he isn’t attacking his fellow rookies, just teasing.

“Aw, leave them alone, they’re cute together,” Kevan laughs. “It’s like two kindergartners holding hands on the playground!”

Patrice hates that they both look relieved - they shouldn’t have to be in a world that demands relief for something like this - but he’s also glad that he was right, and the team is cool with it. (Not that he had any real doubts, but still…)

“Don’t worry, children, you’re nowhere _near_ as bad as them,” Quiader snickers, jabbing his thumb at Brad and Patrice. “Hey, neither of you gets to have that look, you’re so fucking unsubtle. We knew before you did.”

There’s a rumble of agreement from all around the locker room and Brad suddenly has a huge grin. “Well, that’s great actually, it means I get to do this in public now…” And he yanks Patrice over for a kiss.

Patrice kisses back automatically, amused and embarrassed in equal parts by Brad’s antics as the whole locker room wolf-whistles at them for it. As they pull back from each other again, though, he realizes he doesn’t mind… because this is something Brad would’ve done before, if he’d never met Carter and had ended up with Patrice back then instead. It seems like Brad is almost healed, finally, and that’s a great feeling.

* * *

What’s not so great is the start of the season. In the first twenty games they’re 9-7-4, with the rookies finding their skates and Bruce still working out the kinks in his coaching style. Brad still gets hit a lot, but it’s way down from last season at least, which means that apparently threatening legal action finally did the trick. Patrice will take it.

* * *

Then comes their first game against Tampa, at the end of November, and Callahan starts shit again. Because it’s always Callahan. In the locker room after, despite a 3-2 win, Brad mutters something bitter about how he’s surprised Callahan will touch him since “he has to wash the gay off his fists after.”

Getting home that night, Patrice tries to think of how he can help his boyfriend feel better. Brad is clearly still frustrated because he doesn’t immediately start getting ready for bed, instead pacing in the kitchen and grumbling to himself.

“Brad, maybe you should lay down before you have an anger stroke,” Patrice suggests.

“I’m not having an anger stroke, I just really fucking hate Callahan. Maybe someone will spear him in the dick for me…”

A light turns on in Patrice’s brain. “Marchy, do you want me to suck you off?” Sex is touchy for obvious reasons, even now, but he thinks this is safe enough.

Brad freezes in place and stares, but he doesn’t look uncomfortable at all, just really surprised. “Um… but haven’t you never done that before?”

“Well, you can teach me how. Just tell me what I’m supposed to do, and if you don’t like it for some reason just say ‘stop’ and I will. It can’t be that hard.”

“Bad choice of words, Pat,” Brad snickers, and the tension breaks. He comes over and they kiss briefly. “But yeah, it’s usually not that difficult. Just - whatever you like when you get blown by somebody, do that. You won’t be that far off probably.”

After a little bit more awkward discussion, they decide Brad will sit on the edge of the bed so that Patrice can kneel on a pillow. This way, since he’s never done this before, he won’t have to worry about lying down on his own hands and having to shift his weight around and fidget constantly. It makes Patrice really glad that Brad’s also from Canada, because American guys are all cut for some reason and he doesn’t think he’d know what to do with a dick that has half its skin missing and can’t slide the way it’s supposed to.

At the end, Patrice ends up swallowing because the sink is too far away. It’s not the most pleasant flavor ever, but he’s tasted worse things. (He still brushes his teeth three times after and gargles with way too much mouthwash.) And it pays off, because Brad is considerably calmer now and no longer cares about anything Callahan said during the game.

“How’d I do?” he asks as he lays down next to Brad, who’s sprawled on the left half of the bed.

“You’re good at everything anyway… should’a known you’re good at that, too…” Brad mumbles, not opening his eyes. Then he grins, still a little sex-stupid. “But I’m kinda glad you only dated women before this, means I’m the only one who gets you this way. Makes me feel special.”

Patrice chuckles fondly. “You are special, Marchy. Hey, do you want to get pressed, too?”

“Yeah.” Brad rolls clumsily onto his front and puts his arms out to the sides, then Patrice lays on top of him and goes limp. “Feels good…”

Patrice is about to answer, but Brad’s already falling asleep. He smiles to himself and lightly kisses the back of his boyfriend’s head. Patrice lies there for awhile until he’s sure Brad won’t wake up, then carefully crawls off the bed so that he can get in the shower and jerk off. He wasn’t expecting to be so turned on by blowing Brad, because thinking back on it he can’t remember ever being attracted to other men. So, Patrice doesn’t know what he should call himself, because he’s clearly not gay or straight, and bisexual doesn’t feel right either because he’s still not interested in men… he’s just interested in Brad. That’s not the same thing.

* * *

The next morning, Brad’s in an insanely good mood, and that makes Patrice happy because it means he did something right.

“I slept so good last night,” Brad grins as Patrice makes coffee.

“That’s great,” he agrees. “Nothing to do with me, right?”

“Of course not,” his boyfriend snorts. “You have no fucking right to just always be good at everything, Bergy, seriously. I almost couldn’t tell you never blew a guy before.”

Patrice laughs. “That’s mostly on you, Marchy, I just did what you said.”

Brad turns off the stove and scoops scrambled eggs onto their plates, then starts peeling two oranges. “Did I dream you getting up and leaving after?”

“No, you didn’t,” Patrice admits, slightly embarrassed. “I went and took a shower after. I thought you were sleeping.”

“That’s terrible,” Brad scolds. “You should’ve just woke me up and asked, I would’ve returned the favor.”

“No, it’s fine, you deserved to rest. Next time.”

The plates are set on the table, and Patrice pours the first mug of coffee. He puts in an insane amount of milk and sugar before handing it over to Brad and making a much more reasonable one for himself. As he’s about to sit, though, he notices how Brad is just staring at the cup.

“Too much sugar?” Patrice asks, concerned.

“No, um.” Brad clears his throat and sets it down. “No, it’s perfect. I just…”

This is unexpected, because Patrice has made Brad’s coffee before but for some reason this time it’s driving Brad to tears.

“Hey, what is it?”

Brad coughs and rubs one eye with his fingers. “Why do I get to have you? You’re patient and you’re too nice for your own good and you always get my coffee right and now you suck me off without even caring that you got nothing back and… fuck, Bergy. Does heaven know you’re missing?”

“That sounds like a bad pick-up line,” Patrice smiles. He reaches out and takes both of Brad’s hands in his. “How come you never think you deserve me?”

“Because you’re literally perfect and I’m a rat.”

“You’re not a rat, Bradley. And it’s not about deserving, okay? I’m with you because I want to be with you. That’s really all there is to it. Okay?”

It takes a second, but Brad nods. He’s managed to not cry this time. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Patrice repeats, kissing his forehead. “Let’s have breakfast.”

* * *

Even after that, sex is still an idea that’s difficult to approach for them. When Brad is about to return the favor that evening in their hotel room in Philadelphia, Patrice asks four or five times if Brad’s really okay with it and completely kills the mood by accident. So it ends up taking place the following night after a three-goal shutout against the Flyers, and Patrice is smart enough this time to shut up and just let Brad do his thing. He doesn’t regret that, either, because Brad really, _really_ knows what he’s doing.

They don’t talk about it much after that, and Patrice is perfectly okay not talking about it because he’s comfortable with the place where their relationship is. For over a month, they’re in their own little bubble of happiness when they’re off the ice together, exchanging blow jobs every few days and staying with Brad’s family in Halifax over the Christmas break. Of course… all bubbles eventually pop, and (sadly but not surprisingly) it’s Brad’s anxiety that does it.

* * *

After getting home from a shootout win against Montreal in mid-January, Patrice is in the middle of unpacking both their suitcases when he realizes how quiet it is. Normally after a successful game, Brad is bouncing off the walls, but the apartment is oddly still. Patrice’s heart sinks, because that usually only means one thing: his boyfriend is having a panic attack somewhere, probably hiding in a closet or sitting in a corner because small spaces are safer somehow.

“Marchy?” Patrice calls, leaving their bedroom and wandering into the kitchen. “Brad? Where’d you go?”

He’s distressed to find Brad sitting on the edge of the tub, head in hands and clearly doing a breathing exercise. Patrice stops over a foot outside the open door. He knows not to corner Brad in a bathroom, it’s really important not to corner Brad in a bathroom.

“Are you happy, Pat?”

Patrice is startled by the question - shouldn’t he be the one asking it and not the other way around? “Of course I am. I’m only unhappy when you’re not happy, Brad. You know that. What’s wrong?”

“Even though we don’t…?”

Oh. That’s what this is.

“Why don’t you come out of there, and then we’ll talk about this.” Patrice really doesn’t get why Brad’s hiding in the bathroom when _this_ is the issue they’re apparently about to address. It seems counter intuitive. “I’m tired and I know you are, too, so we should sit on the couch instead.” He also knows that sometimes convincing Brad to stand up and move somewhere else helps; a change of scenery can distract from the anxious thoughts.

Patrice backs away from the door completely, leaving plenty of room as Brad comes out, and they go into the living room so that they can snuggle on the couch while they discuss this.

“Did I say something to pressure you?” Patrice asks first. “Because if I did, it wasn’t on purpose. I’m perfectly fine if we just keep doing things the way we’ve been doing them until now.”

“No, you didn’t,” Brad mumbles. “But it’s been months, and usually by now…”

“Hey.” Patrice runs his knuckles down the side of his boyfriend’s face, skin prickled slightly by the stubble there. “I don’t care about ‘usually.’ Usually I’ve been in relationships with women, but I’m not doing that right now, so what ‘usually’ applied in your relationships has nothing to do with us, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’m alright with sticking to what we’ve been doing until you’re sure you’re ready, Brad. And if you’re never ready, that’s okay, too. Getting to have sex is a lot less important to me than being in a happy relationship, and I can’t be happy if you’re not happy. I’m never going to ask you for something you don’t want.”

“I know,” Brad nods, shifting a little so that his head is resting against Patrice’s sternum. Patrice thinks Brad is listening to his heartbeat. “It’s really stupid, though, ’cause I’m scared of it still but I also miss it and… it’s confusing.”

“I’ll go to therapy with you tomorrow, we can talk about that there. I don’t really know about this enough to just talk you through it here, so we should ask her about it.”

“She told me last time I should be in couple’s counseling with you. We’re not even having problems… okay, I guess we kind of are, but not like. Stupid problems most people have.”

“Did she say why?”

“Uh, because like. You did almost get _shot_ trying to protect me and everything, so she thought we’re codependent or something. Then I told her I’ve been in love with you since way before I even met Carter and she shut up about-”

Brad freezes, apparently having heard what just came out of his mouth. Patrice knew, of course, it’s just that… they’ve never actually used that word before, so… it’s startling for one of them to actually say it. Patrice feels a smile bubble up, and he presses the lower half of his face into Brad’s messy hair.

“Say it again?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

“It again,” Brad jokes, sounding slightly nervous.

“You know what I meant…”

“I, uh, I love you?”

“Is that a question?”

“No.”

“Good.” Patrice kisses the top of his head. “I love you too, Marchy.” It feels amazing to finally say it. He’s been thinking it for weeks, but he was worried about scaring Brad if it actually came out of his mouth.

Brad immediately relaxes, sinking further against Patrice with a quiet sigh. They’re okay again.

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilery trigger warnings:  
> 1\. There is a scene where Patrice has a gun held against his face by Brad's abusive boyfriend.  
> 2\. There is a press conference where rape is discussed at length.  
> 3\. There is a scene where Brad is so anxious he throws up.  
> 4\. There are multiple scenes dealing with homophobia in the NHL - basically Brad is openly attacked on the ice by opposing players and it never gets called by the refs until Bruce Cassidy takes over and pitches a major bitch fit about it. This includes use of the f-slur by a player.  
> 5\. Brad ends up being outed against his will after his boyfriend hits him in the head with a lamp and it puts him in the hospital.  
> 6\. Brad and Patrice both have panic attacks throughout the fic.  
> 7\. Towards the end of the fic, sexual content appears/is discussed.
> 
> I picked Callahan because of the licking thing, and also because I don't like Tampa Bay. I'm sure he's not a rabid homophobe in real life the way he is here, and in fact I know nothing about him except that Brad licked his face once.
> 
> I am choosing to moderate comments on this fic, even though nobody ever comments anyway so it's pretty much a non-issue. Mainly it's to keep people from flipping their shit on me if they read this and got triggered despite all the tags and warnings. If you don't like it then don't read it.


End file.
